Mystique
by At A Venture
Summary: Ultimate X-Men: Logan and Rogue deal with a death in the family.


_This a short piece originally written for the WRFA, published 2/25/07. Characters are from Ultimate X-Men._

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I found her in the garden, pulling handfuls of grass out of the manicured land and letting them rain down from between her fingertips to the ground below. Each blade drifted on its own course, silent and gentle in its descent. The girl was as silent as each blade plucked, though gentleness was far from the description most would use to characterize her mood. Her eyes, still glowing with red irises from the stolen powers of a lesser mutant, were sullen and downcast, while redness collected at her lash-rimmed lids, and a stream of lightly glittering wetness swelled her sunken cheeks. Her shoulders were slumped, and her back curved uncomfortably to allow such an action. A hint of her soft white skin at the tailbone peeked out beneath the hem of a light green sweater, and the bumps of her vertebrae poked at her delicate dermis.

Her pain was evident, and I approached her cautiously to avoid the teenage whiplash that came from most of these tender moments. My murdered old boots came within range of her minimal vision, but she didn't look up to greet me. Her fingers still played in the grass, though she'd created an impressive bald patch at her knees. After a moment's hesitation, I crouched down at her side, creaking the leather hide of my old belt, and popping the adamantium-laced bones in my knees.  
"What's wrong, kid?" I asked, though my voice was hoarse and I was aware that my question had come out more like a low growl.  
"Nothin," she pouted, though her fingers stopped playing on the lawn.  
"Yeah…" I replied, and sat back on the grass, my legs out in front of me, arms draped over my knees. I rubbed absently at a grease stain on the thigh of my blue jeans.

At last, she raised her head, her fingers rubbing at the back of her neck to relieve an ache. Together, our eyes wandered to the brick façade of Xavier's school, watching the remnants of our team engaging in less depressing Saturday afternoon activities. While my mind wandered, the quiet young woman slid closer to me, and I lifted my arm to invite her into my personal space. She bit her lower lip, chewing at the pale pink skin until it glistened, then closed the space between us.  
"Mystique died today." Rogue whispered, resuming the hanging position of her head. I listened to the rustle of her hair as it drifted against my forearm. I searched my pathetically absent memory for a recollection of that name. I knew it, certainly, but what it was attached to, I failed to recall.  
"She was the Professor's cat, and she died."

The floodgates opened then, and the small girl began to weep. Her shoulders shook under the consoling hold of my arm, and her small, muscular form fell against my ribcage, her face finding comfort in the scrap of flannel I'd thrown over my tee shirt that morning. I tucked her in against me, listening to her sobs, rubbing a hand lightly over her spine. And we sat in that way until the sun crept past the treetops and cast a cool shade over our joined bodies.  
"Was she an old cat?" I asked after some time had passed and her long, choked sobs had slowed to quiet sniffling.  
"I think so," she muttered through small gasps.  
"Then maybe it's best that she passed away, kid." I closed my eyes, then opened them again, vaguely recalling those I had loved and those who had died. "What I mean is," I paused, continued with a slightly more raspy voice. "If she was young and she passed away, maybe she was suffering and it was better that she passed on rather than continue being in pain. And if she was old and she passed, maybe it was just her time to leave us. Either way, I'm sure Mystique had a good life. After all, she lived in this great big house and had a lot of people to love her, including you and the Professor. And I'm sure she had plenty of food to eat and a nice warm bed to sleep in. If you can get that much affection and happiness out of life, isn't it better to die before it all goes away?"

I swept her closer into my grasp and stared at the cloudy blue sky that hung over us that afternoon. The voices of our companions caught on the wind and drifted away, leaving us in solitude. I tried to envision dying in the way that Xavier's old cat had died, warm and loved and whole, and I knew that the quiet girl beside me was imagining the same thing. Her sobbing fell to silence, though her cheek remained nestled against my ribcage, and her lithe figure stretched out in the plucked lawn. With a deep sigh, I inhaled the combined scents of her companionship, the last remaining hours of a spring day, and the genuine hope of our longing for a warm bed, a good meal, and a loving family.


End file.
